


It's our smoking gun but hey, we're still alive

by aboutbunnies



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 08:04:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6649282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aboutbunnies/pseuds/aboutbunnies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scully and Mulder, on the run post-The Truth. Wifegate-inspired: <i>They've said these vows before, she realizes, time and again, over lifetimes: in their basement office, in rental cars and motel rooms, at far too many hospital bedsides. In the hallway outside his old apartment and in her old bedroom, their son between them.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	It's our smoking gun but hey, we're still alive

They eat cheap Chinese out of cardboard containers, with plastic forks instead of chopsticks. He steals bites of her General Tso's when he thinks she's not looking, and in retaliation, she manages to drink nearly half of his beer, though she'd declined when he'd offered her a bottle of her own.

They're sitting cross-legged against the bed, shoulders touching, on the questionably clean floor of yet another poorly-lit motel room in Nowhere, Nebraska. Her hair is newly blond – the chemical smell of the dye still wafts faintly from the bathroom – and his face sports three days of new beard growth.

She sighs. Already, she's tired. How long can they sustain this, she wonders, this strange anonymous life that's been thrust upon them? How long can they run, can they hide? How long before it all catches up to them?

How long before one or both of them goes crazy, throws in the towel, just plain gives up?

She turns her head and rests her cheek on his shoulder, lightly. Whenever she catches herself with these thoughts, she looks at him. Touches him. Revels in the knowledge – the truth – that she _can_ look at him, can touch him. That he has not been taken from her, not this time.

How long?

_As long as it takes._

Her mouth curls into a smile as she feels his lips on her forehead, and she hums her wordless gratitude to him: her partner, her best friend, her lover. Somehow, every time he knows, and she's grateful he allows her the time, in silence, to work it out in her mind.

“Scully,” he finally ventures, his breath warm against her skin, “you okay?”

“I'm fine, Mulder,” and it feels like she's been saying this one particular line to reassure him for the better part of a decade now, but this time, at least, it feels true.

He smiles at that, relief palpable between them, and he wraps an arm around her, invites her to lean fully into his body. She sets the carton of mostly-cold chicken on the floor to accept the invitation, pads her fingertips against his chest as she revels in his nearness. She may tire of the chase, of the running, of this cruel game they never seem to win – but she will never, she thinks, tire of _this_.

After several long moments, he starts fidgeting, fingers tapping against her back, foot twitching against the floor. She knows the signs, has known them for years, and can practically hear his mind working, the wheels spinning. It thrums through him and she starts the countdown in her mind – _five, four, three_ – and decides to preempt whatever it is he's going to spout at her this time.

“Mulder, what --”

“Scully,” he cuts her off almost immediately, pulls back to look at her then, suddenly serious, the fidgeting stilled. “Scully, marry me.”

Her eyes widen and she thinks he must be kidding, but then, his expression is solemn; his eyes hold no humor. She feels her pulse quicken, but still, she shakes her head. “Mulder, you know we can't.”

(She's been saying this for a decade, too: No, Mulder, we can't drop everything to go investigate possible crop circles. No, Mulder, we can't write 'Mothman' in a case report for the FBI. No, Mulder, we can't submit an expense report containing Yankees tickets and a lobster dinner...No, Mulder, we can't get married while we're on the run from the US Government.)

He knows her too well. He's clearly anticipated her response and jumps in immediately, all earnest hope, making her throat tighten. “I'm not saying we go down to the courthouse and sign papers,” he insists. “Obviously, we can't do that. But who says we need it on paper?” He shifts, pulling away slightly so he's facing her, takes both of her hands in his. “We love each other,” she nods at this, though he hadn't been asking. “We had a _son_ together, Scully.”

He soothes his thumb over the top of her hand as he mentions William, and she blinks rapidly, turning her gaze down to their joined hands. He squeezes tighter. “I'm in this for the long haul, Scully, and I'm pretty sure you are, too. Marry me.”

(The problem with her decade of No, Mulders, is they've always ended in her following him. In her walking beside him, into the unknown.)

When she looks up at him again, her answer must be on her face, because a sudden smile blooms over his; he tugs at her hands. “Can't do this sitting down,” he says, as if that's obvious. And then he's getting to his feet and pulling her to hers, never letting go of her hands.

She opens her mouth in half-surprise (here? right now?) but any hesitations disappear as his smile is replaced with a nervous chuckle and he squeezes her hands. “I, ah, didn't really plan this part out,” he stammers and _oh_ , how she loves this man.

“Oh, you didn't?” she teases lightly, and is gratified to see the tension ease in his face. “It doesn't matter what you say, Mulder,” she encourages, and she's surprised to feel her heart begin to beat faster. _This is it_ , she thinks. _Remember this._

He closes his eyes and tips his face up towards the ceiling, lets out a long breath. When he returns his eyes to her, she shivers slightly at the intensity in his gaze. “I, Fox, take you, Dana,” he begins, and for some reason the formality, the traditional words sound right in his voice, “for better or for worse...in sickness and in health,” and he raises her hand and presses his lips, with a slight tremble, to her skin.

“I, Dana, take you, Fox...Until death do us part,” she finishes for him, and for once, neither one of them denies this particular inevitability. But his grip on her hands tightens and she squeezes his fingers in response, holding on hard and fierce.

He clears his throat and his eyes are shining, even as he offers her the start of a half-smile. “It's always you, Scully. It's always been you. My friend, my constant. My truth.”

“I'm in this for the long haul, too,” she whispers, belatedly answering his proposal. “You are...you always have been, mine. My Mulder. My touchstone.”

They've said these vows before, she realizes, time and again, over lifetimes: in their basement office, in rental cars and motel rooms, at far too many hospital bedsides. In the hallway outside his old apartment and in her old bedroom, their son between them. She hears the echoes, now, and she breathes out slowly, tremulously, at the reminder. As she cups his cheeks in her hands, she sees the memory in his eyes, too. She raises on her toes to kiss his forehead, lingering.

His breath is warm on her throat and his voice is rough. “I do, Scully.”

Then she lowers from her toes, hands still cupping his face, thumbs brushing his lips before he kisses her the way she'd wanted to kiss him, in the hallway outside his old apartment, so many lifetimes ago. And she murmurs it against his mouth, finally:

“I do.”

So this is how she becomes, for all important intents and purposes, his wife: standing in the middle of a seedy motel room in Nowhere, Nebraska, her hair still damp from dye, white takeout rice spilled on the floor where his foot had nicked the carton in his haste to haul her to her feet.

Eventually she opens her eyes and sees the spilled rice in her peripheral vision; she smirks and tugs lightly at his hand, nods to the floor so he sees it, too.

He laughs, then, wide and happy, and her heart swells to hear it. “I always thought the rice was a weird tradition,” he admits.

And she laughs, too, and kisses him again.

He tastes of takeout and beer and always, always of coming home.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from [Over the Rhine’s Infamous Love Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZYyeFEW7HR0). Go give it a listen - you won’t regret it. Promise. _Baby, our love song must survive._
> 
> This is my first attempt at XF fanfiction. Hope I did ‘em justice. Also, this is so much more fluff than I usually write. I’m ~~sorry~~ not sorry.
> 
> This can also be read on [my tumblr](http://sombra-alma.tumblr.com/post/143346626617/its-our-smoking-gun-but-hey-were-still-alive).


End file.
